


Best Laid Plans

by blueink3



Series: Tumblr Prompts [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, John is Smarter than he looks, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Sherlock tries so hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7180238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And if Sherlock Holmes is asking John Watson to marry him, then perfection must be achieved, expectations must be exceeded, and the world must bend to his will. John deserves nothing less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Salambo06](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salambo06/gifts).



> For a prompt from @letthechoirssing: what about Sherlock trying to deduce the perfect way to ask John to marry him (because he needs it to be perfect) so it takes weeks and weeks, until one morning he wakes up to find John staring at him, a small box resting between them....

It should be a big deal. It _is_  a big deal, isn’t it? 

John made him watch  _Four Weddings and Funeral_ , so he knows. He knows proposals, weddings, and the like must be perfect. 

And if Sherlock Holmes is asking John Watson to marry him, then perfection must be achieved, expectations must be exceeded, and the world must bend to his will. 

John deserves nothing less. 

xxxxxx

He should have known Mycroft would be his usual meddling, tiresome self. Sherlock has barely let the bell over the door of the jewelry shop finish jingling before his phone is buzzing in his pocket, Mycroft’s hateful name flashing across the screen.

“What?” he snaps.

“Well, well, little brother. I truly didn’t think you had it in you.” 

“Piss off, Mycroft. This doesn’t concern you.” 

The woman behind the counter raises her eyebrows and then busies herself with the sapphire display, pretending like she’s not actually listening in. 

“Oh, Sherlock, your happiness has always been my top priority,” Mycroft replies and Sherlock scoffs. 

“Really? When did it become that? Before or after I was forced to put a bullet in Magnussen’s head?” 

The woman is definitely staring at him now. 

He hears the not-so-distant memory of John’s voice saying,  _“Bit not good,”_ so he offers a smile and mutters “Tourette’s,” which is more than he would have done before John came into his life. 

The woman drops her gaze back to the earrings in front of her and Sherlock turns to inspect the men’s wedding bands. 

“Well played,” Mycroft drawls. “Perhaps I’ll send you around town with a doctor’s note. In fact, I know just where to get one.” 

“ _Please_ shut up,” he pleads as he bends low over the glass case and studies a simple gold band. 

“Oh I wouldn’t go with that one. Not really John’s taste, is it?” 

Sherlock’s head snaps up and he glances quickly around for the security camera. 

“You bastard.” 

“Ah, ah, Sherlock. Language. You told Mummy you’d try.” 

“And  _you_  told Mummy you’d leave well enough alone for once.” 

Mycroft sighs and Sherlock knows he has him. He was there when the promise was made. In fact, he’s surprised their mother didn’t make them sign a contract in blood.

“I’m merely suggesting you might not want to get him a wedding ring that looks exactly like the one his ex-wife once put on his finger.” 

 _Ah_. Okay. Sometimes, the British Government does have a point. Sherlock could deign to concede that. 

“Might I suggest bringing someone in as a second opinion?” 

“I don’t need anyone’s  _help_ , least of all  _yours_.” 

“Suit yourself,” Mycroft intones and Sherlock hangs up before his brother can discern his sudden uneasiness from the way he exhales. 

He stares at the gold bands once more, seeing Mary reflected in every single one. 

Perhaps he should think this through a bit more thoroughly. Mycroft’s words haunt him and he curses under his breath as he pulls his phone out and scrolls to a certain name. 

“Hello?” Lestrade answers. 

“Gavin, come quickly. I need help.”

The DI sighs through the receiver. “Are you dying?” 

“Practically.”  

xxxxxx

“Sherlock, what the hell are we doing here?” Greg asks as they enter Garrard’s, straightening the tie Sherlock made him don as they approached the store.

“I need your opinion.”

“On what? Christ, is this Hermes?”

“Stop fiddling,” Sherlock snaps, spinning on his heel to straighten the offending garment before turning once more and making a beeline towards a glass case in the back.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade complains before jogging to catch up. “Seriously. What the hell is going on? Is it for a case? Where’s John?”

“Not for a case. And inviting John would make this whole fiasco moot,” he clips, bending low over the glass and scanning the options.

Lestrade sidles up beside him and Sherlock silently counts the seconds it takes for everything to sink in. He gets to seven when Greg inhales sharply.

“These are wedding rings.”

“Yes.”

“ _Men’s_ wedding rings.”

“As always, your powers of deductive reasoning astound.”

Lestrade is silent for a few moments before he breathes, “Blimey.”

His unasked questions are nearly suffocating so Sherlock sighs (making it extra put-upon) and glances at him in the reflection of the glass.

“If it wasn’t clear, I’m asking John to marry me.”

Sherlock expects jokes, maybe a derisive comment or two. What he doesn’t expect is stunned silence, which is what Lestrade is granting him as he stands up straight and turns, blinking at him.

“What?” Sherlock asks because it’s getting a bit unnerving. He doesn’t think Lestrade has been this quiet in his presence since he asked how John took Sherlock’s return. Sherlock didn’t have to say anything and Lestrade didn’t know how to comfort him. Perhaps there was no comfort to be had.

“You’re getting married,” the DI finally says and Sherlock inhales.

“Assuming John says yes.”

“Right,” Lestrade says softly, lips quirking up into a sentimental smile. “’bout damn time.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but cannot ignore the warmth that’s originating from someplace deep in his chest and spreading outward, down every limb.

He turns back to the case and examines the innocuous bands that are supposed to bind John to him for all the rest of their days. Not gold, he decides (refusing to give Mycroft the credit for it) and focuses on a dark band towards the back.

Titanium. Stronger than gold, stronger than platinum. Durable for all of the adventures, scrapes, and near death experiences he and John will inevitably get up to.

“That one,” Lestrade murmurs, pointing to the same band Sherlock’s been eyeing.

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. “That one.”

Excellent, he thinks. Nearly there.

xxxxxx

Sherlock is _not_ nearly there.

Sure, he has the prop, but he needs the scene. He need the _set._ He needs to stop letting Mrs. Hudson drag him to the West End.

He watches more romantic comedies than he’ll ever dare admit and he buys Mrs. Hudson’s silence by offering to teach her chess so she can beat Mr. Chatterjee. Five minutes of her commentary after she stumbled in on _Sleepless in Seattle_ was quite enough from her on the topic:

_“Oh I do love this movie! After so long, they meet on the top of the Empire State Building, Just like that other movie. Oh whatsit called? Cary Grant and Deborah – ”_

_“The Empire State Building? That doesn’t help me at **all**!” _

He was certainly not flying them both to New York, just so he could ask a question that he could just as easily attempt on top of one of England’s own landmarks.

The Eye? It’s hateful, but it’s a thought. He’ll put it at the bottom of the list. A list that currently has only one idea on it. Meanwhile, John’s ring box is metaphorically burning a hole through his sock index.

He drops his head in his hands and hits pause on _Notting Hill_. He’s definitely not buying John a Chagall. John probably doesn’t even know who Marc Chagall _is_.

It should be London, though. Someplace familiar. Someplace special. A place that means something to both of them.

 _Aha,_ he thinks, an idea fixing in his mind. It’s perfect.

xxxxxx

“Molly Hooper, I am in need of your services.”

Molly pales so rapidly, Sherlock is genuinely worried she might faint. “Sherlock, please don’t tell me…” she trails off, eyes filling with tears, and suddenly Sherlock recalls the rather unfortunate circumstances surrounding the last favor he called in.

“No! No. Not – not as such. I have no plans to go anywhere. At least not of my own volition.”

Molly exhales and sways. “I didn’t think you’d do that to John again, but… well.” She shrugs and Sherlock will never get used to the way his heart clenches every time he thinks back to that day.

_“Keep your eyes fixed on me.”_

He shakes his head against the phantom memory and clears his throat, already glancing around the room to find an appropriate spot.

“I’m going to propose to John and I’d like to do it here,” he states simply, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

Molly gapes at him like he’s just announced he’s moving to Salzburg to join the von Trapp Family Singers.

“Here? As in, here in the morgue?”

“Obviously. It’s where we met. Though, technically we met in the lab, but there’s a class in there during the hour of the exact minute Mike introduced us.”

He’s busy inspecting the lighting in the corner and even testing the brutality of the lino floor on his knee when he feels the weight of Molly’s gaze like a particularly hard shove to the back.

“What is it?” he asks rather hotly. He thought this was a good idea. Right now, he only has a ring. He needs a ring _and_ a plan, but everyone seems hell bent on poking holes in his.

“Sherlock,” Molly begins, ringing her hands, “Barts doesn’t – it doesn’t have the same… appeal for John anymore. Do you know what I mean?”

“But we met here,” he pouts.

“But you died here,” she replies as delicately as she can.

And the bottom drops out of Sherlock’s world.

Of course, yes, it’s not like he forgot. He just thought they had… moved on. He feels as if his ribs have just caved in on themselves.

“Why do you think he only comes here when it’s absolutely necessary?” Molly asks. “Even when you get lost in an experiment and don’t know what time it is, he calls you to come home. He doesn’t collect you, the way he used to. Or he has me shoo you out of here. He can’t – it’s not easy for him. It’s not really easy for me either, but I don’t love you the way he does.”

Sherlock swallows hard and heartily ignores the tears collecting in the corner of his eyes. The ring box has become an anchor in his pocket, nearly bringing him to his knees.

Molly takes pity on him and gives him an encouraging smile. “Also, you know, you don’t really want the scent of formaldehyde clouding the festivities, do you?”

But Sherlock can’t smile back. He merely gives a juvenile little shrug. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have something good overshadow the bad?” It’s a silly question, one filled with the kind of sentimentality he abhors and the kind of naïve hope he learned long ago wasn’t worth having.

For John it is, though. John gives him every kind of hope under the sun.

“Sherlock,” Molly says, placing her hand on his arm. “He loves you so much. He deserves better than the smell of decomposing flesh and rubbing alcohol.”

Yes, he thinks, John deserves many things. But perhaps not that.

xxxxxx

Sherlock feels like he could vomit and the overwhelming scent of garlic as he pushes open the door to Angelo’s is not helping matters in the slightest.

“You all right?” John asks, helping Sherlock out of his coat. “You look a bit peaky.”

“Fine,” Sherlock replies and he would have sounded so much more convincing had his voice not cracked. John eyes him for a moment, but loops his fingers through Sherlock’s (in a rare public display of affection) and leads him to their table.

Angelo is only too happy to place _two_ candles on its center with a flourish and a wink. Sherlock internally groans. He had made a reservation (for once), wanting to ensure that their table was available and when Angelo asked if it was a special occasion, Sherlock had floundered, giving the man all the answer he needed.

If he gets one more knowing look, he’s going to pull a Headless Nun and throw himself out of the restaurant.

“Been a while, yeah?” John asks, eyes bright as he tucks his napkin on his lap.

Sherlock immediately calms and nods, taking a sip of water as he eyes their fellow patrons: one family, three couples, a pair of siblings, two groups of friends.

It’s a lot of people to be baring his soul in front of.

“You sure you’re all right?” John asks again, eyes narrowing as he lets his foot rest against Sherlock’s under the table.

“Of course,” he manages. “Why do you ask?”

John shrugs. “You just look, I dunno, distracted.”

Excellent, Sherlock. Wonderful start to the proposal.

He bites his lip, closes his eyes, and silences the rest of the room.

“Now you’re starting to worry me, love,” John’s voice says much closer than he had been previously and Sherlock’s eyes fly open to find his partner at his elbow, head leaning down to whisper in his ear. “What’s going on in that gorgeous brain of yours?” he whispers, leaning forward and pressing his lips briefly to Sherlock’s cheekbone.

And, in that moment, everything fades away.

“Nothing,” Sherlock replies more sincerely this time. “Absolutely nothing at all.” And indeed, it is blissful silence. “Just you.”

John’s eyes light up the way they always do when Sherlock pays him an unexpected compliment or directly references their relationship. “I love you,” he breathes and Sherlock has to swallow thickly around the knot in his throat.

“I love you too.”

John presses another quick kiss to his temple before pulling away and glancing at the menu. “I’m thinking the risotto. What about you?”

Sherlock smiles at him dumbly as if he’s suddenly taken a harsh blow to the head. God, he cannot wait to marry that man.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

John chuckles and reaches over, taking his hand. “I asked if you’d seen the specials board. There’s a ravioli I think you’d like.”

“Oh.” No he hadn’t seen the specials. He hadn’t seen much of anything.

“Yes. Ravioli. Good.” He nods before blurting, “John, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“Yeah?” he replies, eyebrow raised for whatever ridiculousness will certainly come out of Sherlock’s mouth next.

Good. He has the element of surprise.

“Would you…” His hands fall into his lap, fingers inching toward his pocket when he freezes, realizing with a sickening clarity that the ring is not where it’s supposed to be.

In fact, the ring is still sitting in its box, in the middle of his sock index, at the back of his drawer, because Sherlock was so worried about maître des and candles and bloody wine choices that he _forgot_ to get it.

Worry is starting to cloud John’s beautiful features once more at Sherlock’s continued silence and that is inexcusable.

“Would you… be willing to split some tiramisu with me?”

John barks out a laugh and inhales deeply. “Of course, love. Jesus, I thought you were going to ask if you could experiment with killer piranhas or something.”

Actually that’s not a bad idea, he thinks, and his face must show it, because John is immediately shutting that down with a vehement, “Absolutely not.”

The knot in his stomach loosens and he allows himself to relax, sinking back against the chair he sits in and basking in the love that John Watson has for him. He’s off the hook for now, but he’s not a coward.

It’s for the best that he forgot the ring, he decides. He glances around again at all that surrounds him: one family, three couples, a pair of siblings, two groups of friends. This should just be for them. He does not need an audience. John is enough.

He’ll do it at home. Over dinner or something. Maybe during dessert? Yes, dessert will work.

As long as John doesn’t accidentally swallow it, dessert will be perfect.

xxxxxx

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock bellows as he blows through the front door. “I need you to help me bake a cake!”

“What, dear?” she asks as she opens her door and pokes her head into the hall. “Have I missed a birthday?”

“Not as such, but it is a special occasion,” he says as he bounds up the stairs, expecting her to follow. She does.

“Oh?” It takes her a bit longer to reach the flat ( _“I have a hip, remember.”_ ) but she watches with the patience of a mother of four as he clears off the kitchen table and dumps everything in the sink.

“Sherlock, if we’re baking a cake, you’re going to need access to the tap.”

“Oh…” he pauses and glances at the mound of equipment and ponders where to store it. “The oven?”

“Dear, we need to _bake_ it,” she reminds before sighing. “Do you have ingredients? Eggs? Milk?”

He stares at her blankly.

“Oh dear. Come on. We can use my kitchen.”

He follows her back down the stairs at a glacial pace, wondering why he can’t even achieve this one small, simple task. Why on earth would John say yes if he can’t even _bake_ a _cake?_

“The things I do for you boys,” she sighs as she pulls out a mixing bowl and various spatulas. And Sherlock suddenly realizes just how paramount she has been to all of this.

She gave Sherlock a home and welcomed John with perfectly timed assumptions and well-meaning commentary. She made them tea and biscuits and very occasionally did their laundry, all while claiming to not be their housekeeper. She kept them together, as best she could, and loved them as a couple long before they were one.

And in this moment, Sherlock is overwhelmed with gratitude for this diminutive yet feisty woman.

“Now what’s the special occasion?” she asks, head half in the refrigerator, and Sherlock savors this moment because if anyone is going to understand the absolute enormity of what’s about to happen, it’s Martha J. Hudson.

“I’m going to ask John to marry me.”

A gasp echoes from inside the appliance and her head pops up a moment later, hands flying to her mouth as tears already form in her eyes.

“And I’m going to put it in the cake and hope he says ‘yes.”

“Of course he is, you silly man,” she warbles, stepping forward and cupping his face in her weathered hands. “Oh my boy,” she breathes. “You’ve grown so much. I’m so proud of you.”

And Sherlock doesn’t know what to say to that. Here is a woman who’s seen him at his very worst and never lost faith in him. Much like John. He swallows hard and presses a kiss to her cheek.

They work methodically and Mrs. Hudson is having none of his shenanigans. She slaps his wrist when he tries to sneak a taste and orders him silent when he grills her about the egg to milk ratio.

“Now remember,” she instructs as she slides the concoction into the oven. “Take this timer with you. When it dings, all you have to do is pull the cake out. I’ll help you ice it when I’m back from bridge. All right?”

“Yes,” he replies, timer clutched in one hand, empty ring box in the other. He can do this.

Of course, he forgets. And then proceeds to burn himself while digging John’s ring out of the charred remains.

xxxxxx

Tomorrow night. He’ll do it tomorrow night.

Baked goods are obviously out of the question, but he does have a fine wine for the occasion.

He considers balloons, but then watches a YouTube video where the balloon flies away with the ring attached to its string, and promptly nixes that thought.

He considers a dog with the ring tied to its collar, but then he’d have to actually _adopt_ a dog, and really, one major life development at a time.

He goes to bed completely dejected. John deserves the world and Sherlock has nothing but burnt batter, the occasional adventure, and himself to offer.

xxxxxx

He wakes the next morning with his face mashed against the pillow and his hand automatically gripping some part of John.

Today, it’s his t-shirt, worn cotton soft between his fingers.

As he wakes, he notices many things without even opening his eyes. First of all, sunlight streaming through the window after so many days of rain. Then, his legs currently tangled up with John’s, skin soft and warm. But perhaps the thing that sticks out most is the fact that John is not actually asleep. Sherlock can tell by the length of his breath and the rapid patter of the heart beneath his hand.

John is awake and John is _worried_ which puts every one of Sherlock’s senses on high alert.

“Good morning,” John breathes, leaning over and pressing a kiss in Sherlock’s hair before pulling away once more.

Okay, he doesn’t _sound_ worried. He sounds his usual soft self. Nervous, perhaps?

Sherlock follows those lips to kiss him some more, but he’s stopped when a calloused hand comes up to cup his cheek. His eyes finally blink open and focus on John – soft, sleepy, nervous John – who’s smiling down at him as if he’s just won the world’s largest lottery.

Sherlock realizes he’s not all that far off the mark when he discovers what else is in bed with them: a small, black velvet box. Basic. Unassuming. Much like the man who placed it on the mattress between them.

“John,” he breathes, heart thundering as he stares.

John clears his throat and scoots a bit closer, popping open the box to reveal a gunmetal grey band. “I figured titanium would be the most practical what with all we get up to – “

“Who told you?” Sherlock interrupts, shock and elation warring with disappointment and fury. “Was it Graham? Molly? It was Mycroft, wasn’t it. I’ll skin him.”

John frowns, utterly confused. “Told me what? Wait – no one is skinning anyone. Sherlock!” he yells, but Sherlock is already up and out of the bed, rifling through his sock drawer and pulling out his own matching box.

He sets it reverently on the bed next to its mate as John stares numbly down at it.

“Sherlock, you – ”

“I’ve been trying to plan it for weeks.”

John’s head snaps up as realization dawns beautifully across those rough and tumble features. “Angelo’s.”

“Yes.”

“The cake fiasco.”

“Unfortunately.” Sherlock kneels on the bed and carefully flicks open his own box. “Titanium,” he says softly. “For all those adventures.”

“Ask me now,” John breathes, sitting up and kneeling to mirror Sherlock. “You’ve been planning for weeks. Ask me now.”

Sherlock swallows hard and inhales a rattling breath. Now that the moment is upon him, he feels utterly adrift. But then he catches John’s eye and sees all of the love he feels reflected back at him and he knows. He knows he doesn’t need balloons or cake or dogs (though that is a conversation they will be revisiting). He doesn’t need fancy restaurants or expensive wine or skywriting.

He just needs this man, staring back at him with all the trust in the world. As if he had carved out his heart and placed it in Sherlock’s hand for safekeeping.

In fact, he had:

_“He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him.”_

“John Watson…”

“Yes, Sherlock Holmes?”

“Will you marry me?”

John threads his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and tugs him closer, breathing his answer against his lips.

“Yes.”


End file.
